


genre savvy

by Infinitree



Series: Captain Underpants and the Confounding Chronicles of Counterpart Communication [2]
Category: Captain Underpants Series - Dav Pilkey, Captain Underpants: The First Epic Movie (2017)
Genre: Gen, other characters mentioned but only briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28152939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinitree/pseuds/Infinitree
Summary: Captain looks back. Benjamin looks inward. Neither are satisfied with what they find.
Series: Captain Underpants and the Confounding Chronicles of Counterpart Communication [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804579
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	genre savvy

**Author's Note:**

> > edgewired said: Nodus Tollens? (The realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore.)  
> 
> 
> It's another requested drabble! This might be one of my more... stream-of-consciousness type of writing. 

Comics made sense. Comics had clear good guys and bad guys. The solution, more often than not, was to beat the thing to next Tuesday, dust yourself off, and wait until another villain comes up or comes back.

He couldn’t exactly beat _himself_ up-- not for lack of trying. That was literally one of the first things he did, after finding out, and all he got out of it was a tummyache.

He should have known better, but then again, he _was_ Captain Underpants.

He also should have known better than to come back to this closet, but he kept on doing it. 

Captain had initially come here to find potential evil schemes. And then he came here because it had vintage comics tucked away. Pretty soon, he was just hanging around this closet whenever it was his turn to talk. For one reason or another the man living in his head didn’t like this closet, if the layer of dust on _everything_ had anything to say about it. His bouts of spelunking for the mysteries within the small space flew under the radar. 

Either that, or the man had decided to not say anything about it, which was unlikely from what he could glean from their interactions.

It was One Of Those Days (aka, Raining). Principal had asked a question, which led him to remembering something he had found in the closet. Which then led him to holding this long-abandoned picture frame as gently as he could as if it would shatter. Between the cracked glass and his own super strength, the likelihood was pretty high.

The photo was _old_ -old. It was yellowing, and in some cases fading. According to the sign, it was a class photo, if he couldn’t have figured it out by the gaggle of kids right next to the man.

And if he couldn’t have figured out that the man was _the man in his head,_ then the sign helpfully named him.

Honestly, the second weirdest part was the hair. The hair was a surprise; it was slicked back, but it was clear from the gentle curls that refused to be tamed, that being straight wasn’t its natural state.

The weirdest part was that he was smiling. Sure, his posture betrayed his excited nerves-- or maybe just nerves?-- but it was still there, all lopsided.

Captain mirrored the smile on the man’s face. It settled more naturally on his face.

His thoughts were all up in panels. Panels, thoughts. He felt like he was getting somewhere. Panels. He traced a thumb on the edge of the frame.

Frame, panel, thoughts. _It was framed._ It had been important enough _to_ be framed, and even if it was in the dust now, the man in his head had _cared_ once, maybe. The evidence was there and was plain as, well. The smile on his face.

The dots were nearly connecting. He wasn’t built for this kind of thinking, but maybe, more importantly, _more importantly--_

“What kind of backstory did you have to turn up like this?” he said aloud to the man in the picture. 

The man in the picture did not answer. He figured that if he were to bring this up to the man in his head, then he would be just as silent on the matter.

In any case, he shouldn’t keep him waiting. Captain placed the photo back in the box and closed it and the door. He pushed himself off the ground into a hover before making his way back to where the cassette was.

(Benjamin Krupp woke up an hour later. It had been a simple enough question-- either the other guy was _indecisive_ or and _idiot,_ and frankly he wasn’t sure anymore.)

* * *

At some point in every kid’s life, their parents would feed them that whole trite ‘oh, you’re so special-- you can do anything if you put your mind to it’ speech that a good chunk of those snot-nosed brats had some delusion of grandeur. Not everyone can be an astronaut, or the president, or _both_ and then some.

Those sorts of things needed to be tempered and quashed-- the sooner the better. Was it cruel? Maybe, but it was necessary. It _had_ to be necessary.

The world must have some twisted sense of humor, then, to literally make him a superhero. To force a superhero _parody,_ no less, to pilot his body like a plaything and bash his skull against whatever was attacking the school or Piqua at large or _the world._

In one breath, Krupp was staring down pages of paperwork. In the next, his heart hammered in his chest from adrenaline. The pain shot through him a second later. A pair of footfalls were fast approaching him.

“Captain Underpants!” George yelled. “Are you alright?”

“Nope, try again.” He let out a hiss as he adjusted himself in the asphalt crater he found himself in. And failed. He couldn't even lie down on his side to face them properly.

The boys’ expression faltered and began to shift into something more awkward. They’ve been nothing but a terror for what felt like an entire lifetime, but something about the way they were wincing when they realized it was just _him_ made his blood boil. Or crawl under a rock. One of the two.

“Oh, uh--” Harold started, unsure of how to breach the topic of switching him out again. His hands fidgeted.

George was the quicker of the two and just brought his fingers together to _snap._

In one breath, he was just outside the school. In the next, he was on the other side of the city. The boys were nowhere in sight, but with the way everything was quiet, it was safe to assume that whatever the _other guy_ was fighting was defeated now. The rush that he felt when he came up last time was gone and spent, leaving him a husk with no pants.

Benjamin couldn't help but stare at his now-shaking hands. It took all his willpower to put one foot in front of the other. Again. And again. And _again._

Every little kid always dreamt of being important. To be the hero of their own story. And as someone who was shunted into that role, it was _overrated._ No one talked about the hours patching yourself up. No one talked about the night terrors of coming so close to dying. 

There were two categories: there were the ones where he was gobbled up by a monster, or shot with something, or beaten within an inch of his life. As harrowing as those were, it was _preferable._ At least he knew what was coming in those dreams.

At least he could put a face to an assailant.

The alternative were the dreams where he would never wake up. There would be nothing but darkness for miles, and no matter how much he tried to claw out of it he never could. As far as he was concerned, the rest of the world was gone. Even without seeing it, he knew _somehow_ that the other guy had just subsumed his role permanently.

In some cases, no one noticed the difference. In others, they did but they've chosen and they chose _the other one_ instead. In all of them, he was convinced that _he_ was better than him.

And when he was awake he still had to pay his mortgages. Run a school. Have adult responsibilities.

After what felt like hours of trudging and letting those thoughts stew and fester in him, he was home. Benjamin was on autopilot at this point-- walk, bedroom, clothes, bed.

(Tonight there were no dreams, and he takes that small victory the next day.)


End file.
